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    Mission_Improper

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      man said under his breath. "Like we don't already

      have enough in here."

      "Kincaid," Gemma warned.

      Ava stiffened, and Byrnes strolled toward the

      window, hands clasped behind him. "By the scent

      of oil and the whir of clockwork, I presume you're

      a mech."

      The word had once been an insult, before the

      Uprising of 1880. Humans had been considered

      cattle, useful only for their blood, and mechs—

      those with mechanical limbs or clockwork organs

      —even less. Once, there had been a line in the

      sand: blue bloods versus humans and mechs. Taxes

      to be paid in blood. Mechs to be imprisoned in the

      enclaves, where they worked metal to repay the

      gift of their clockwork organs or mechanical limbs.

      Times had changed, or at least, they were

      changing. Old hatreds, however, still lingered.

      "Aye, I'm a mech. What of it?" Kincaid asked,

      in a low, threatening tone as he found his feet.

      Byrnes had an inch on the bastard, but Kincaid

      more than made up for that in breadth. Muscle

      rippled beneath his coat and bulged as the brute

      flexed his forearms.

      Byrnes simply clasped his hands behind him

      and stared back. Ava would no doubt tell him later

      that he was causing trouble, but sometimes he

      simply couldn't help himself. "Nothing really. It

      explains a great deal." Then he turned away and

      ran his fingertips over the shelves, as though

      dismissing the man.

      "Aye, well—"

      "Mr. Kincaid," Gemma mocked. "Pray don't

      tell me that blue bloods make you uneasy."

      Kincaid's voice flattened. "Not really. They

      tend to bleed just as well as any other, only takes a

      bit more sticking to finish the job."

      "Gentlemen," Ava said firmly. When he

      looked at her, she arched a brow behind her steel-

      rimmed spectacles. "Byrnes." This was said

      somewhat more warmly, with just a touch of

      exasperation.

      He held his arms out, as if to say, what?

      "Well, don't you all wonder why we're here?"

      Ava asked, including them all in her look. "I don't

      think picking fights with each other is conducive to

      anyone's cause."

      "But hardly unexpected," Gemma declared,

      with a faint snort of amusement. "After all, what

      happens when you put four blue bloods and a mech

      in a room together?"

      "That sounds like the beginning of a good

      joke," Charlie Todd declared.

      "I just hope it's not on us." Ava sounded

      nervous.

      "Only thing is, we're missing one particular

      species, if we want it to have a truly decent punch

      line," Gemma replied.

      "A verwulfen?" Charlie said with a grin.

      The only one who didn't find that thought

      amusing was Byrnes. His gut dropped through his

      boots at the word. No.

      "Let us hope not," Gemma said. "We already

      have one hothead."

      It continued, but Byrnes's attention had been

      caught by something else. He could hear footsteps

      padding behind the closed doors at the far corner

      of the room, and a slither of shadow darkened the

      door briefly, softening the air with scent.

      Lilies.

      And something else... something that was

      becoming clearer as the day continued, as if the

      overpowering scent of perfume was wearing away,

      leaving a musky hint of something else.

      Something... all woman.

      No. Hell, no.

      Every nerve in his body grew tight. Byrnes

      stalked toward the door on silent feet, pressing his

      fingertips against the paneling.

      "Fuck me," Kincaid muttered.

      From Ava, "Well, it stands to reason.

      Verwulfen were cleared by the treaty too, you

      know—"

      "And what would we need one of them for?

      It's not like this is a frigging alliance of any sort—"

      Every one of Byrnes’s hunting senses was

      alight. His mystery was beginning to clear up, and

      it was drawing a conclusion that he didn't

      particularly like. Not at all.

      A light, husky laugh mocked him through the

      door, and then movement danced in the room

      beyond. Going. His prey was going.

      Byrnes slipped through the doors before he

      could think about it.

      There was no one there. Only another door,

      swinging shut slowly, and her scent, becoming

      obnoxiously clearer the closer he got to her. He

      knew that scent hiding beneath the perfume. It had

      driven him crazy a year ago, when someone—the

      Nighthawks’ guild master—had this smashing idea

      about pairing him with an outside bounty hunter on

      a case nobody could seem to solve. His bloody

      case. The case he couldn't solve.

      "Just work with her, Byrnes. She's good at

      what she does, and she's an even better tracker

      than you are." Garrett's voice echoed in his

      memory.

      Byrnes grit his teeth. Garrett had known he

      worked better alone. He always had, and it got on

      every one of his last nerves to know that not only

      could he not find the answer in this particular case,

      but that they expected that she would.

      They’d lasted an entire day working together.

      And then it became a competition.

      "Bet I catch the killer first," that husky voice

      whispered in his mind.

      "I bet you I do," he'd shot back, and stepped

      toward her, into her space. "And when I do, you're

      going to get down on your knees and—"

      "And?" she'd drawled, straightening a little,

      her eyes lighting with a challenging fire.

      It changed what he'd meant to say. “And kiss

      my boots” had been his intention. That was not

      what had come out. The instant he'd stated his

      intentions she'd taken a step toward him, closing

      that last inch between them, and reached up to

      whisper in his ear.

      "Be careful what you wish for, Byrnes." A

      mocking finger traced over his shirt so lightly he

      barely felt it, yet the not-quite touch sent a shiver

      through him, and their eyes had met then, as

      something more than words had been exchanged. "I

      don't think you'll want my teeth anywhere near your

      balls." A smile that gripped his cock like a vise.

      "Not that that will ever happen, but it does add a

      certain little incentive toward the case. When I

      bring this bastard in, I have my own terms, and

      you'll meet them."

      "Name them." The shock of his sudden

      interest had flared through him, and he'd caught her

      wrist, stopping her hand just above the waistband

      of his leather breeches.

      "If I solve the case, then I get to tie you to my

      bed, and do anything I desire to you. Anything at

      all."

      A mistake. He should have made her be more

      specific, but just at that moment she'd flexed her

      wrist in his grasp and raked her fingernail over the

      leather protecting his cock.
    <
    br />   "Done," he'd said. After all, he'd never lost

      before.

      If there was one person who could get into his

      room at the guild and leave that taunting note,

      knowing just knowing how much it would get his

      itch going, it was her.

      The devil in disguise.

      Pushing open the doors to the next room, he

      came to a halt. It too was empty.

      And then someone spoke. Someone he knew

      all too well.

      "Looking for something? Or is it someone?"

      said an amused voice from the side.

      Her.

      Byrnes met a pair of eyes that were lit from

      within with a bronze glow. She hadn't changed one

      inch from that debacle last year, where he'd been

      left tied to his bed, naked, with a lovely little

      message written across his chest in ink, which all

      of his fellow Nighthawks had found absolutely

      hilarious.

      "Ingrid," he said.

      "Did you miss me?"

      TWO

      "MISS YOU?" Byrnes stated flatly, though the

      gleam in his blue eyes wasn't cold. Not at all. He

      took a menacing step toward her before pausing,

      his lean form falling into absolute stillness.

      Ingrid Miller smiled. She'd worked with

      Byrnes for only two weeks—or worked against

      him, perhaps, when he'd declared that he didn't

      need her and could find the suspect before she

      could—but in that time she'd come to know him

      well enough to predict him.

      He hated emotional displays, especially in

      himself. His control was absolute. And she'd just

      caused him to break both of those self-governed

      rules.

      Call it the devil on her shoulder, but when it

      came to Byrnes, she absolutely could not help

      herself.

      "Miss you?" he repeated. "Why yes... I

      believe I did. I have a little debt to repay."

      "A little debt?" Ingrid glanced at him from

      beneath her lashes in a most un-Ingrid-like way.

      "What a curious choice of words."

      Instantly his gaze flattened, and she laughed.

      "I searched for you," he said stiffly.

      "Did you?"

      "I spent months looking for you."

      "You wouldn't have found me, no matter how

      much time you spent looking for me." You wouldn't

      have found me, because I wasn't here. Not that her

      quest to Norway had been successful, even with all

      of the lovely bounty money she'd earned by

      bringing in the so-called Vampire of Drury Lane all

      by herself. The humor drained out of her, but she

      managed to keep her smile on her face.

      Some mysteries took time.

      She certainly wasn't giving up on this one.

      And now Ingrid had received this offer, with more

      money on the table, should her work prove

      satisfactory to the Duke of Malloryn. More money

      meant more informants she could pay, more

      searchers she could employ. She'd find the family

      she'd been stolen from all those years ago. One

      day.

      She just had to be patient.

      "Where did you go after the Drury Lane case?

      You weren't in London. You weren't in any of the

      towns nearby. You weren't even in bloody

      Scotland!"

      "That's not really any of your business."

      "Oh, I think it is." Byrnes was in her space.

      They were of a height, especially with her in her

      heeled boots, but she never felt unfeminine around

      him, the way she sometimes felt with other men.

      Byrnes always challenged her to be an equal, and

      that look in his eye had always made her feel

      distinctly feminine.

      "You left me naked and bound to my bed. I've

      been thinking about what I'd do to you to repay the

      debt for the last year." His voice dropped. "Oh,

      and Ingrid, I've had time to get very creative about

      it."

      "Poor Caleb. It sounds like I got to you."

      He hated it when she called him Caleb. His

      teeth ground together, and he reached out to cup her

      cheek. One thumb brushed against her cheek, then

      lower, to her mouth, sinking into her plush lower

      lip and pressing just firmly enough to rouse a fire

      in her blood. Byrnes leaned closer. "That happens

      when a woman makes certain promises, and then

      reneges upon them."

      "I promised to get you naked," she whispered

      around the press of his thumb. "You were naked, if

      I recall. We never agreed upon anything else."

      "You wrote on me."

      "It was a lovely little poem. 'There was a

      young Nighthawk from Matlock; Who had a fairly

      significant—"

      "I remember," he growled under his breath,

      blue eyes alighting with fury and desire.

      Ingrid's smile deepened. "I'm certain you do."

      I am going to repay this debt tenfold, his

      eyes seemed to say.

      You can certainly try, replied her smile.

      That made his eyes narrow.

      "Miss me, Byrnes?" she murmured, her voice

      dropping to a whisper as her body softened toward

      his. The devil always had this effect upon her. "It

      certainly sounds like it."

      "Only because I mean revenge, Miller."

      Miller. God knew she'd missed that, strangely

      enough. Ingrid's smile softened and she bit the

      thumb that still lingered on her lip. The heat in his

      gaze turned intense, and he sucked in a sharp

      breath.

      "Admit it," she said, sucking his thumb gently.

      One of her hands curled in the lapel of his coat as

      she drew free of his hand. "It was more than

      revenge."

      The look on his face told her everything.

      Everything.

      A part of her wanted to grab a fistful of his

      hair and yank his mouth down to hers. The second

      she did, they'd be upon each other, Byrnes

      slamming her back into the wall, and Ingrid lifting

      her legs to wrap around his lean waist.

      She knew it, because that's precisely what had

      happened the one time she'd dared to kiss him. The

      vision sent a shiver of need straight through her, as

      if she could remember every second of that

      moment, every self-destructive instinct that had

      driven her to throw herself into the abyss of desire.

      No, their interest in each other had never been

      the problem. It was the fact that she couldn't trust

      him.

      Ingrid stepped back, crossing her arms over

      her chest. Sometimes she was tempted to reach out

      and touch, but the warier part of her knew it would

      get burned when it came to Byrnes. Far easier to

      keep him at arm’s length and pretend this was

      merely desire between them.

      "One day, Miller," he said, noting the way in

      which she'd disengaged, "One day you're going to

      pay your dues—"

      "But until then," a male voice said behind

      them, "would it be at all possible for the pair of

      you to join us?"

      They staggered apart with a start of surprise.

      The Duke of Malloryn stood in the doorway, both

      han
    ds holding the doors wide open, and from the

      look on Byrnes's face she hadn't been the only one

      taken unawares.

      Which was almost unforgivable, considering

      the two of them had the greatest hunting senses of

      anyone in the house.

      "Of course." Ingrid recovered smoothly.

      "After you, your Grace."

      Malloryn's icy gaze raked over the pair of

      them, “This had better not become a problem.”

      “Of course not,” Ingrid replied.

      “Because if it does….” Malloryn didn’t need

      to add anything else as he turned to head back to

      the library.

      And she needed this job too much to disobey.

      "Revenge is going to be very sweet," Byrnes

      whispered in her ear as he brushed past.

      She followed him, feeling that little thrill

      tingling through her blood, unable to stop herself

      from whispering, "Just remember: two can play at

      that game."

      Malloryn shot them both a cool glance as they

      entered the library, but Ingrid merely smiled and

      took a seat next to a young woman with blond

      curls, who looked at Byrnes, and then at her with a

      slightly shocked expression.

      "Ladies," Malloryn called, taking the center

      of the room. "Gentlemen. May we begin?"

      "AS YOU ALL KNOW," Malloryn said, standing

      with easy authority by the wall, "three years ago

      the prince consort was overthrown by his queen

      and society went through quite an upheaval.

      Humans and mechs had their rights restored"—this

      with a tip of the head to the burly Kincaid—"and

      Echelon society was changed forever."

      "Aye," said Kincaid. "Bluebirds fuckin' sang,

      and everybody lived happily ever after. 'Til the

      Packenham Riots, and the burnings in Manchester,

      and the disappearances in Begby Square."

      Malloryn smiled. It wasn't friendly at all.

      "Like I said, everything has changed. Some

      changes have been well received. Some have not.

      The queen and the ruling Council of Dukes would

      like to think that Britain is on its way to greatness

      but others seem not to hold that same opinion.

      That's why this team has been called together.

      "Someone in particular means to cause

      trouble for the monarchy and they're using the

      populace to do so. The Packenham Riots weren't

      just circumstance. Someone murdered that poor

      young mech and before her blood had even cooled,

      there were pamphlets being circulated in the

      streets, which makes me think it was planned. I

      want to get to the bottom of who is stirring trouble

      before another riot breaks loose. And that's where

     

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